


Friday nights

by hydrumlow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Boners, Bottom Brock Rumlow, Dorms, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, No Sex, Not Beta Read, Roommates, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrumlow/pseuds/hydrumlow
Summary: Jack could have anyone in the world if he pleased, and yet he's sitting there unbothered while Brock occupies the oh-so-desirable space in his lap that would probably be the object of arguments between most of the female participants of this so called party if it wasn't for the simple fact that Jack is openly and unashamedly gay. And maybe that's the reason his touch drives Brock crazy.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Jack Rollins & Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	Friday nights

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally wrote a thing. First time publishing something that I've written in years. 
> 
> Not beta read, because I have no friends who would want to read this. English isn't my first language. 
> 
> I hate it, but it's nothing new when it comes to my own writing. Hope you'll enjoy it more than that.

It's the slow glide of Jack's long fingers on the inside of his thigh that makes Brock's skin tingle. Not because people will see; nobody is paying that much attention to them, and frankly, Brock doesn't give a single fuck about what people may think. It's because Jack himself doesn't seem to notice, turned away from Brock and busy with conversation, his other arm wrapped loosely around Brock's back, hand holding a half-empty bottle of beer that he seems to have forgotten about. Every time those fingers brush up a little too high, a shiver runs down Brock's spine and sends a clear signal to where heat is pooling in the pit of his stomach and where his pants grow tighter and tighter with each stroke. He doesn't move away, but stays put in Jack's lap, too stubborn to admit defeat, or maybe too eager to get more. 

Despite the dim light of the room, Brock keeps his eyes glued to the profile of Jack's face. He's never had such an opportunity to get a good look at his friend even though they've been sharing a room for almost a year. Jack is all sharp angles and harsh lines - slightly sunken in cheeks and a jaw that could probably cut through steel; all of that with a dusting of a scruff, trimmed with the precision of a brain surgeon. The slight bump on the bridge of his nose and a pale scar marking the side of his chin add to the roughness of his good looks, and only the eyes, green like the forest floor in the summer light, give his handsome face the softness that makes it so irresistible. 

Jack could have anyone in the world if he pleased, and yet he's sitting there unbothered while Brock occupies the oh-so-desirable space in his lap that would probably be the object of arguments between most of the female participants of this so called party if it wasn't for the simple fact that Jack is openly and unashamedly gay. And maybe that's the reason his touch drives Brock crazy. 

They haven't planned this. They showed up in Barton's room, like they did every Friday, and he mumbled something about there not being enough seats for everyone invited despite the chairs that had been brought there from the floor's shared kitchen. The room meant to house two people with their belongings wasn't nearly big enough to fit thirty of them, even if only for a single evening, and suddenly Brock was being scooped up from the bed he was sitting on and pulled into Jack's lap to "make more space for those still incoming". He never once complained in the hours that have passed since. 

Somebody snaps their fingers a little too close to his face, and Brock is pulled back into reality. The first thing he notices is that Jack has stopped moving his hand and is now squeezing his thigh instead, digging the tips of his fingers into the firm muscle almost painfully, and certainly enough to cause discomfort, for which, Brock realizes, he is grateful. Now that all of the lights are back on, he's sure that at least one of their closest friends would notice the bulge in his pants and take it upon themselves to announce it to everyone else, but clearly Jack is thinking much more sober than he is, and has taken the precautions to avoid the embarrassment. 

"Get off my bed," Brock hears Clint say. He's clearly tired. After a quick glance at his wrist watch, realizing that it's already well past 2 am, Brock doesn't argue as he stands up to leave, though he immediately mourns the loss of Jack's body heat seeping through his clothes. He almost feel cold.   
Jack takes a little longer to get up to his feet, and for a moment Brock gets an impression that he's uncomfortable. Brock can't be sure, but it may have something to do with how close they've been for the past couple of hours. Brock mumbles his goodbye and watches Jack as he hugs Natasha goodbye. 

Standing up, Jack looks even more intimidating. He's a good four inches taller than Brock, and with his broad shoulders and muscular arms, he's pretty much a tank in human form. But the looks could only fool those who have had nothing to do with Jack. Brock is sure he's never met another person this empathetic, another person who smiled as much as Jack did. 

They leave for their own room, and Brock feels giddy. He's impatient to get behind the closed door with Jack and continue where they have left off because he's almost certain that Jack wants it just as bad as he does. The elevator ride to their floor is one if the longest Brock has ever been through, and when Jack takes his time with the key, he's convinced that he's going to explode. Thoughts running at a million miles an hour make him tremble with excitement, and it's only when they're actually inside and the door behind them is locked that Brock's mind goes blank. What now? 

Fortunately, he doesn't need to wait long for the answer. Jack is within his personal space before Brock can do so much as blink; and he can't utter a word of approval or encouragement before he's being kissed in a way that sets off fireworks in his brain. He kisses back without thinking. Eventually, Jack's big hands find their way to Brock's thighs, and Brock grows hard again before he can protest, but he realizes that Jack isn't trying to undress him just yet. Instead, he's being pulled up into the security of Jack's strong arms and carried to the nearest bed. Whose? He wouldn't be able to tell. 

Jack sits down, and Brock finds himself in his lap for the second time that night, but it's more intentional than before. Jack's hands are warm and gentle as they move over his thighs, but the lips kissing him are punishing. The stark difference between the two experiences makes Brock weak, so he's grateful that he's seated comfortably and supported from all sides; otherwise he would surely collapse. Breathing comes with difficulty, but the last thing Brock wants to do is move away. It takes Jack to pry them apart, and Brock still chases the lips that have left his own bruised and tingling. 

Brock wants more. No, he needs more, but Jack's face is too far, his expression - unreadable, and if it wasn't for the faint sheen of saliva on his red lips, nobody would be able to tell what has just happened. The way Jack looks like a marble statue of a Greek good almost makes Brock jealous, especially when he feels like a disheveled mess after being kissed with such intensity. 

The insecurities creep up on him as Jack doesn't say anything immediately, and Brock once again feels cold, even with Jack still holding him; one of his hands planted firmly on Brock's back as if to keep him in place. They're both drunk. What if Jack doesn't want him like he wants Jack? What if the kiss was just the means to an end? To release whatever had pent up inside Jack in the hours that they spent pressed against each other, a biological reflex rather than genuine attraction.

Jack shifts, lets out a breath, and Brock realizes that there are once again hands lifting him up, only to this time lay him on his back on the narrow mattress. The bed creaks, and Jack's body squeezes itself into the space between him and the wall. Brock closes his eyes with a deep sigh and rolls to his side, back pressing against Jack. He can only assume that Jack wants him to stay. The arm that slips around his waist and the lips pressed to the back of his neck seem to confirm it. 

"I'm fucking drunk," Jack hums, and Brock can feel his hot breath against his neck, raising little hairs. This isn't the romance that Brock has been expecting, nor is it the seduction he's been wanting, but it's better than nothing.

"Tomorrow," he adds, pressing tiny kisses all the way up to Brock's hair, and it's enough. Brock can relax. Jack always keeps his promises.


End file.
